


The First Thing About Birds

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 12:49:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6154231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky says it's a hazard of the job, but those hazards are different when you've got wings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Thing About Birds

**Author's Note:**

> I desperately needed fluff and crack to balance out all the doom and gloom I've been writing, so prompts were requested. Sirsparklepants asked for: _wingfic, the one without wings loves to preen/cuddle the one with them._

Steve's just about done fixing dinner when Bucky makes it home. Dinner's nothing special, but it's miles better than anything Steve could afford on his own: the stewbone's more meat than bone, and he's crammed the pot full of the freshest vegetables he could find despite the lateness of the year. Bucky won't care about the expense; the big mook would just squirrel his pay away for medicines if Steve didn't feed him up right, is pleased as punch because he thinks he's feeding up _Steve_. Steve doesn't even mind doing the lion's share of the cooking. Bucky's lousy at it, and Steve's job--when he has one--never keeps him that late. Besides, he knows how hard Bucky works. The drag of his huge, inky wings as he shuffles through the door is a dead giveaway.

"Hey, Stevie," Bucky calls as he tugs off his scarf by the door, flashing a tired smile that Steve's got no choice in returning. When Bucky smiles, everyone smiles. Steve pities the idiots who think the wings have anything to do with that. "Something smells delicious. Did we get a cook while I was out?"

"Yeah," Steve huffs. "You're lookin' at him. Hope you like beef stew, 'cause that's what you're getting."

Bucky grins, stiff fingers fumbling at the buttons of his coat. He's got a new set of scrapes on his left knuckles, but they're superficial at best--gained from walking the steel on New York's newest skyscraper, not from some jerk's face--so they're probably nothing to worry about. Steve's a lot less happy about the ginger way Bucky contorts trying to pull his wings through the neatly-hemmed slits in his coat, slits he doesn't even try to unbutton first.

"Geez, Buck," he says, setting his spoon aside and turning down the heat on the stove. Bucky's still half in his coat by the time Steve makes it to his side and doesn't protest the help when Steve reaches to extricate him from it. "What happened?"

"Eh, you know. Hazards of the job," he hedges, eyeing Steve sidelong to see if he'll buy it. Steve's glare makes him wince. "Really, it's nothing. One of the boys took a header, and I had to catch 'im, that's all. People always weigh more than they look," he adds, the closest he'll ever get to complaining. He's slanting a grin Steve's way in the next instant, and Steve's already rolling his eyes before Bucky says, "Except for you, of course."

Steve snorts, mouth pulled into a tight line. "You fellas shouldn't be up there without a safety harness anyway," he says, not for the first time. He knows damn well that the Mohawk rivet crews Bucky prefers to work with probably wouldn't wear a harness even if one were offered. High steel workers take home twice the going wage for any other laborer, and the Mohawks have a lot riding on letting their bosses keep their ridiculous illusion that a red man has some special advantage of balance.

"Hey, I'm not the one you have to worry about," Bucky cajoles, briefly flexing a wing to circle Steve's back as Bucky bumps shoulders with him. Despite the chill that clings to the outer feathers, the inner face of Bucky's wing is blood-warm. "I'm just glad he didn't fall to the inside; these things aren't meant for tight spaces."

Bucky's self-deprecating tone sets Steve's teeth on edge. The same wings that make him perfect for high rise construction, that make him _indispensable_ , are what's keeping him from living in the lap of luxury. It's not like wings are all that common--they're about as rare as you can get--but people like their so-called angels dainty and picturesque, with perfect white dove wings that couldn't lift a child, or martial and _also_ picturesque, with bold, brassy hawk wings more intimidating in looks than in practice.

And then there's Bucky, who's beyond picturesque, but his strong, sturdy crow's wings make people think of reapers and devils--Azrael, not Raphael. It's bull, but only Steve and the men Bucky's saved seem to realize that.

"Anyway," Bucky says, pulling his wing back in, "I'm gonna get cleaned up. Don't suppose there's time for a bath before we eat?"

"Water's already heating up," Steve says, trying not to watch as Bucky slouches tiredly away. There's no back to the shirt stuffed into his overalls, and one of the heavy muscles that line Bucky's spine spasms visibly as Steve stares.

"Thanks, Stevie," Bucky calls over his shoulder, unhooking the straps of his overalls instead of shrugging out of them, starting unselfconsciously on the buttons of his shirt.

Steve heads back to the stove in a hurry, jaw set. He already knows what he's going to offer after dinner, and he needs to not think about it until then.

Despite ribbing Steve before, Bucky is vocally appreciative of the stew Steve serves up, even as he's threatening to pass out in his bowl. "Seriously, you should take some classes, go to work at one of them fancy restaurants," Bucky says with a sleepy grin. Shirtless, in a pair of old cotton pants that have been laundered nearly transparent, he looks like willpower and sheer contrariness are the only things keeping him awake.

"Sure, Buck," Steve says, and never mind that Bucky's been pestering him to let Bucky help pay for art school as well. "And then I could come home and tell you all about how the Rockefellers sent back their meal three times when it was already perfect."

Bucky laughs around his spoon and nearly chokes, but his eyes are bright with more than just reflexive tears as he reaches for his water glass. "Point," he gasps when he can breathe again. "Guess you'll have to stay where you're appreciated, huh?"

Steve widens his eyes owlishly. "Appreciated? You know that word, Buck?"

"Hey, I appreciate you plenty! 'Specially when you're feeding me."

Steve shakes his head with a self-pitying sigh, but when Bucky nudges his foot under the table, Steve presses back.

He waits until Bucky staggers to his feet with a yawn and starts taking his dishes to the sink before speaking up. "So, you're looking kind of rough there, Buck. Want me to do your back?"

Bucky turns to him with a start, still holding his glass and his bowl. "Wouldja?" he asks the same way he always does, like it's a pleasant surprise. Like Steve is doing him a favor, which technically he guesses he is. It just doesn't feel like one.

"Sure. Just leave the dishes for later," he says, knowing full well he'll be the one washing them. Exhausted as he is, Bucky will be out like a light by the time Steve's finished with him, which is exactly why he's waited this long.

Bucky's smile is wry, but he doesn't argue. He just trudges into the bedroom, asking, "Chair or bed?"

"Which one's bugging you more?"

"The wings," Bucky admits with a sigh. "Guy I caught struggled a bit before I got a good grip on him. Think I lost a few feathers."

Steve freezes half out of his seat. "Shit, Buck," he breathes, leaving his own dishes on the table and stretching his legs to catch up. "That's dangerous." Break the wrong feather, and he'll bleed like a stuck pig; Steve's seen it happen and never wants to see it again.

Bucky shrugs as he pulls a battered wooden chair up to the side of his bed, straddling it backwards and folding his arms over the chair back. "It's fine. There's a guy who does first aid on-site. Showed him what to do with a blood feather right off."

He knows there's no arguing with Bucky on some things--and people think _he's_ the stubborn one--so he shakes his head again and sidles past to sit down on the mattress behind Bucky, checking him over to see where to begin. Bucky's feathers are a little more ruffled than usual, but that could just be from squeezing them through the slits in his coat. The bald patches his mind keeps conjuring up are thankfully missing.

"Okay, I'm gonna start," he warns. "Let me know if I pull anything the wrong way."

"Like you ever have," Bucky says, smile audible in his voice as he pillows his cheek on his arms. "Best-kept secret in Brooklyn with those magic fingers," he mumbles. "I'd tell the others, but then I'd have to share ya."

Steve snorts. The only other avi Bucky talks to is his sister, and she's got _people_ for this, enough suitors showering her with enough gifts to see their family set for life. She'd take care of Bucky too, if he'd let her--hell, she'd take care of _Steve_ \--but they're fine the way they are. And if Bucky were a little more respectable, Steve probably couldn't do this.

Steve lays his hands flat on the upper arch of Bucky's wings and waits out the reflexive shiver. You're not supposed to touch people's wings, but most folks don't even get the opportunity to try. Bucky's a special case, and it makes some people bold. It makes Bucky a bit wing-shy, but he always settles soon enough, relaxing into Steve's hands until the tight, cramped hitch of wings and shoulders becomes a loose drape, black feathers whispering quietly where they scrape across the floor.

Bucky sighs as Steve strokes his palms down the softer covert feathers layered over the long primaries, squirming a little and bowing his shoulders out to give Steve better access. His wings fall open more at the same time, letting Steve get a feel for the lay of each feather. He can see the disarray now in the secondaries low on Bucky's left wing. The guy he caught must have tried to throw an arm around Bucky and caught feathers instead of skin, and Bucky would have had no choice but to keep beating his wings, ripping those feathers out in the process.

"Ouch," Steve says in commiseration, but Bucky just hums, even when Steve digs his fingers gingerly under bar coverts to check for blood. There's a hidden line of bare skin, naked and vulnerable, but it doesn't seem to be hurting him, so Steve lets it go. New feathers will start growing in days if not before; avis heal fast.

Though Bucky will deny it to his dying breath, the sound he makes as he lifts a wing in invitation is hilariously close to a croon.

At the base where they meet the skin of his back, Bucky's wings are a mass of thick down, warm and soft and very slightly oily. Avi wings don't need a lot of preening, but they're designed to be cared for by hand--by family, usually, and Steve has very clear memories of watching a much younger Bucky take care of his sister, tickling under her white "pigeon" wings until she shrieked with laughter. He still preens her now and then, scoffs with poorly-hidden bewilderment over the soft brushes her stylist uses, but the only hands he's ever asked for since they were kids are Steve's.

There's something meditative about dragging his fingers along the silk of Bucky's feathers, smoothing them down just so until they shine. They may not be the flashy colors Bucky would have wanted, but they're strikingly beautiful, and the way dry, faded black goes glossy under Steve's hands lights a warm thrill of pride in the pit of his stomach.

He starts out mirroring his touches, burying a hand into down on either side and letting his fingertips drag along the undersides of primary feathers and secondaries. Bucky goes boneless with a deep sigh that's nearly a moan, and Steve's left biting his lip, willing his hands steady. He loves the wings, it's true, but what draws his eyes every time is the broad expanse of Bucky's shoulders, the cut muscles of his back, the trusting line of his bared neck as he nuzzles into the crook of his arm. He's given himself over utterly into Steve's hands, trusting him to do as he likes.

It's not long before he has to move, focus on one wing at a time. Bucky's wingspan is so large, Steve ends up sliding off the bed, dropping to one knee to get to the very tips of the longest flight feathers. They always end up dusty despite his best efforts, look uncomfortable the way they bend together where they drag the floor, but Bucky never seems to mind. When Steve gets up to do the other wing, he snatches a peek at Bucky's face and finds him nestled into his elbow, eyes closed, a faint, blissful smile teasing up the corner of his mouth. He could probably fall asleep just like that, but Steve can't let him; after leaving his wings extended like that, Bucky would wake unable to move them, and they've got better ways to spend a Saturday morning than with Bucky out of commission.

"Hey," he says, laying a hand on Bucky's bare right shoulder as he finishes up with that side. "C'mon, Buck. Lie down, and I'll get your back."

Blearily peeling his eyes open, Buck pushes himself upright with a deep inhale, blinking at Steve with naked fondness until Steve gives his shoulder a push. "Ungh. Right," Bucky mumbles, rising and turning in the same move to flop across the bed. He groans a little as he heaves himself into a more comfortable position, stretched out on his stomach with his face half-buried in his pillow. He's sure to be out in ten minutes, but Steve doesn't mind. It saves having to explain himself if his control slips, which happens far too often for his own peace of mind.

The thing about having wings like Bucky's is that Bucky needs a matching framework to go with them. It's not that Bucky's muscles are that much bigger than those of the crew he works with, all of them fit from long hours of strenuous labor. It's just that they're incredibly dense, so corded even at rest that punching him can be like hitting a brick wall. Steve's got strong hands, totally outsized compared to the rest of him, but he needs leverage if he's going to make any headway on loosening up the knots that plague Bucky, and he can't do that while Bucky's sitting up.

Perching on the edge of the bed, Steve closes his hands over the tops of Bucky's shoulders and tries his best to ignore Bucky's grateful hum. Bucky always runs hot, but tonight his skin seems warmer than usual in the cool air of the apartment. They're well on their way to winter, and maybe Steve's been a little too sparing with the heat--

"You put in that order for coal yet?" Bucky asks sleepily, tucking his hand under his cheek.

"Not yet," Steve admits, his hair falling in front of his eyes as he ducks his head.

"Mm. I'll do it in the morning."

"Nah, I've got it, Buck." And he'll pay for it himself, too. Coal is cheaper than doctors; it's the least he can do.

Bucky doesn't argue, just takes another slow, deep breath as he shifts, settling into a looser sprawl. He just about melts as Steve digs his thumbs in on either side of his spine, forcing out the tension that gathers like clenched fists under his skin. Already his breathing is evening out, wings sagging a little as Steve makes his way downward, but as Steve finds the still-jumping muscle of his lower trapezius, Bucky starts to wake up a little.

"Oh, fuck, right there," Bucky groans, and _Jesus Christ_ , that's not even fair. Steve grits his teeth and presses harder, rolling his knuckles into the tight muscle and leaning on his hands, but from the sounds Bucky's making, it's not quite enough.

"Hold on," he says, sitting up on his knees, and that's...that's better. He can bring more force to bear this way, and he's still being careful, not straddling Bucky the way he used to when they were younger and things weren't so complicated. It's good enough.

"Fuck, Steve," Bucky mumbles into his pillow as he slides his hand free, "'m not gonna break if you--"

Groping blindly behind himself, Bucky's flailing hand skates off Steve's hip and lands square on Steve's crotch, where the stiff line of his dick is bent at an awkward angle inside his pants. They both freeze, but Steve's already tensing to move, ready to throw himself off the bed until Bucky's hand shifts with ominous speed to fist in the middle of his shirt. That's...that's not good. It's completely normal, because _of course_ Bucky's going to be angry, but he--

"Steve?" Bucky asks, voice unexpectedly hushed.

"Yeah?" he croaks, telling himself he can take it, whatever Bucky dishes out.

Turning half over, Bucky stares up at him with wide, startled eyes, and Steve forgets to flinch when Bucky turns loose of his shirt and reaches up to hook his fingers in Steve's collar.

The next thing Steve knows, he's being pulled down _onto_ Bucky as Bucky cranes his head up a bare few inches and kisses him, careful and sweet, like he's not quite sure of his welcome. His mouth is just as soft as it looks, opens without hesitation when Steve groans and kisses him back. It's amazing, and part of Steve can't believe they haven't been doing this forever, even as his head is filling up with questions almost faster than he can think them. _Why_? and _Since when_? vie with _How_? and _Really_?, and Steve pulls back with an effort, head whirling.

"Buck?" he asks, lost.

Bucky looks a lot more awake now, but his eyes are still sleepy as he smiles up at Steve. "What? I mean seriously, if I'd thought you knew the first thing about birds, I'd have come up with a dance," he drawls, smile widening into a grin. "But even you gotta know I wouldn't let just anyone at my wings."

"That...was not as big a hint as you might have thought," Steve manages, swallowing hard. "I mean...brothers?"

"Well," Bucky says a little too casually, "I think Becca figures you for her in-law...does that count?"

Steve gapes. He can't help it, and he knows it's making Bucky nervous, but holy shit. Bucky's _sister_ knows? Just how obvious has he--

Oh.

_Oh_.

"Sure," he says, voice cracking a little, but it's worth the embarrassment to see Bucky smile. "Yeah. That...yeah."

Bucky's laugh is mostly breath as he rolls over, as much as he can without crushing his wings. "Well, good, because the next step was building a nest, only I'm not much for carpentry. Metal's more my style."

"That doesn't sound like a very comfortable nest," Steve says, playing along as Bucky lets go of his collar to settle his hand around the back of Steve's neck, pulling him gently down.

"Probably not," Bucky admits, "but I bet I could distract you from it."

"Yeah? What're you going to do, dance for me?"

Something hot and wicked glitters in Bucky's eyes at that, and God, he really needs to not think about Bucky dancing, showing off, just for him.

"Nah," Bucky croons as Steve settles in beside him, one inky wing unfurling to drape warmly over them both. "Figured I'd start by showing you preening goes both ways."

That's what he'd been hoping to hear, but what Steve says is, "Oh, good. I thought you were going to line the place with feathers and bring me something shiny."

Bucky sputtering helplessly into his shoulder shouldn't be attractive in the least, but it's Bucky and he's happy, and that's good enough for Steve.


End file.
